


Between the Sheets

by galentines



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:49:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galentines/pseuds/galentines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce, Natasha, some well earned sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Sheets

**Author's Note:**

> Set in some undefined future after Infinity War, or at least post-Civil War. Originally posted on tumblr last September.

She’s so small when she lays against him like this. 

It’s still new, this intimacy. It still makes his heart race and his nerves stand on edge. It still pulls soft smiles from the corners of his lips and brings heat rushing to his cheeks.

He’s never been known to sleep well, but with Natasha tucked in the crook of his arm, he can’t imagine missing a moment.

She’s tiny, yes, but strong. Compact. He feels the taut muscle of her thigh - literally able to snap necks - where it lays heavily on his hip bone, her full leg lazily splayed across him. He feels her pointe-trained toes, tense even in sleep, brushing against his ankle.

Her arm, the cuts of lean muscle catching the moonlight through the window, rests at peace against his chest, but her nimble fingers twitch, like she’s ready to grasp a weapon just out of reach.

She’s a wonder, all of her. So much in so little, and still more than the sum of her parts. He thinks of all the ways she makes men hurt, all the power and might in this body. She’s capable of incredible feats, her body poised for attack at any moment. She’s probably had to sleep with one eye open her entire life.

Her brow furrows against his chest, and he unconsciously rubs his thumb in circles against her back. Gently, not to wake but to sooth. Her breath is still a bit labored, not entirely at ease. Her eyelids flutter and he worries about her dreams.

All of that strength in just one person, and yet here she is, burrowed against him and dreaming. Her chest rising and falling, her lips puckered ever so slightly against his skin. He keeps drawing shapes against her skin, rests his cheek against her flaming red hair.

He closes his eyes and tries to match the rhythm of his breathing with hers. Tries to draw the remaining tension out of her and into him. He’ll barely sleep anyway. He can be up a little longer.

All of her might has to go somewhere. The candle can only burn so long before it goes out; it needs a rest for the wax to reform.

Her body tenses against him and he braces himself, worries that he’s woken her up just with the beating of his own heart under her palm.

Her nose rubs against his chest as she adjusts, leg tightening around his. And then she uncoils, languid against him, yet somehow even closer than before. Her breaths begin to even out.

Her fingers lay still, her foot at ease.

He curls his arms around her tight, breathing a sigh of relief. 

–

Natasha’s a morning person; she’s never had the choice to be otherwise. For as long as she can remember, she’s trained herself to wake all at once. Her eyes open and her body is awake, ready. She wakes with the sun, rarely misses it cresting over the horizon.

Sometimes she forgets that there won’t be a gun in front of her. There isn’t always a fight at the end of slumber. Now, she’s more likely to find graying curls and an urgent snore.

She smirks - Bruce is the least restful sleeper she’s ever come across, but the snore has become an endearment. The snore means Bruce is finally shut off and asleep, which she knows is no easy feat. He blushes in embarrassment when she teases him, does impressions that make his nose wrinkle up in shame.

The truth is, snoring is the most harmless thing about his sleep; it’s everything else that keeps her in bed beside him long into the morning.

The tossing, turning, always frantic. Then the curling up into himself, as if shielding his body from unseen blows. The sweat that blossoms around his temples and the quiet whimpers only she hears. The uneasy quiet before it happens all over again.

She swears she’s seen his fingertips turn green, just faintly, as his hands curl into angry fists against the sheets.

She’s not afraid. She is, after all, the one who taught the Hulk that a lullaby means time to settle down. And she trusts Bruce implicitly - he would never hurt her. Never. That’s not why she refrains from her former morning routine.

She knows what it’s like to fight for your life in your dreams. She has the kind of past that haunts the subconscious, that lingers in the deepest parts of sleep. He has those demons, too.

There was a time not so long ago when she’d rise from bed and hit the pavement immediately, the feeling of an intense run clearing her mind for the day. The images from night would be left long behind her.

Now, though, she pulls the covers back over her shoulder, molding her body against Bruce’s back, tangling their legs together. She takes a tight fist and unravels it in her hand, threads her fingers through the tense digits. She breathes in and leaves a kiss on the back of his neck, resting her forehead against his skin.

After a minute, they breath together. She smiles as his fingers tighten around hers.

She can’t throttle the ghosts of his past, but she can give up her mornings to help him fight them.


End file.
